Some say that in the winter, when the shadows are long and the bare branches of the trees reach out with long, crooked fingers, that that is when the dead come out.
And sometimes... sometimes those who wander alone don't ever come back.
In a world where every digital breakthrough to age-old traditions stood as symbols of our progression, it wasn’t the advancements themselves that captivated us, but the revolution of our words.
I fly by the hallways, emptier than ever and I can hear chuckles from nearby classrooms. I love the outside, sure, but I love being inside just as much. There's no family to lecture me about how bad the high school is. Though it isn't.
I kneel down on the dewy grass, picking up a ladybug by the hand.
With my stomach on the ground I look over the parapet and into the trench. Nobody could be seen.
Late at night, my igloo is cozy and warm, unlike the Artic outside. Grandmum tucks me into bed, but doesn't leave just yet. She takes a seat on the edge of my bed, and prepares her story telling voice.
Here’s the thing about being a boat: your quality of life depends entirely upon the humans who take care of you. As for me, I suppose I’m lucky. They haven’t traded me out for another, even though I’m old and my motor doesn’t work much.